


Choices

by lamardeuse



Series: The Declarative Case [4]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-19 13:56:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/573992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James works his last case, and it takes a toll.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choices

**Author's Note:**

> Set post-series 6.
> 
> Thanks to Dorothy for fantastic beta and Britpicking services. Any remaining errors are mine.
> 
> See end notes for more warnings.

When his mobile began ringing insistently at half five, James took a moment to mourn the scuppering of his dinner plans, then rolled over to answer the call of duty.

Less than an hour later, he was standing in Marley Wood as Laura sat hunched over a body that had been discovered stuffed in a rubbish bag and buried in a shallow grave. He desperately wanted a smoke, because he'd decided to resist temptation earlier. There'd been a chance the case would be open and shut, and he might be seeing Lewis later after all. Not likely now.

“It's her,” James murmured, and Laura raised her head to meet his gaze.

“I think so, yes.” Speaking her name seemed oddly forbidden, but James thought it: Siobhan Foster. She was fifteen, and had disappeared a little over a fortnight ago. Her parents hadn't reported the disappearance for three days, because they thought she'd run off to London with the boyfriend, who was nineteen and a musician. He'd been questioned at the time, but had been released. That was definitely the first route James wanted to take.

“We'll need to establish as precise a time of death as possible,” he muttered, which earned him a sharp look. “Sorry.”

“Why are you even on this case?” Laura said, not unkindly. “You should be winding down.”

“Might as well go out with one more face to remember,” James said. Siobhan's face was unmarred, but he could tell from the extent of the bloating and slippage that she'd been dead at least a week, and God, how he hated that he knew that.

“Problem is, there'll always be another,” Laura murmured. She returned her attention to the corpse. “I'll have an answer for you as soon as I can.”

“Thanks,” James said, turning away to talk to Purnima and Roger, who were consulting with the SOCOs.

“Which one of you wants to come with me to talk to the parents?”

Purnima stepped forward. “We thought we'd take it off your hands,” she said.

James studied her. From the moment she joined up two years ago, he'd known she was one of the brightest young lights around the nick. She'd passed her Sergeant's exam a little over a month ago, and he was certain she'd make Inspector in record time, too. Roger had been a sergeant for a bit longer, but his experience was mostly in youth gangs and other antisocial activity, not homicide.

 _They both wanted this,_ James reminded himself. _Trust them to know their own minds._ Still, his conscience couldn't permit him to let them face this unprotected.

“Has either of you ever informed a parent their child has been murdered?” Purnima and Roger exchanged brief glances that told James all he needed to know. “Believe me, it's not something you want to handle without someone who's been through it before.” The first time he'd had to do it had been with Lewis at his side, a strong, reassuring presence. Later on they'd gone back to James' flat and Lewis had made him tea and they'd watched an idiotic film on television until James had fallen asleep against Lewis' shoulder. He might have fallen in love with him a little then.

“I'll go with you,” Purnima said, as he knew she would. He recognised so much of himself in her, and though he hoped she would be spared some of the things he'd seen, he knew it wasn't likely she would be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When they arrived, James decided to let Purnima tell the parents so that he could devote all his attention to watching their reactions. Both were suitably devastated, but there was a lack of surprise there that was enough to raise his suspicions. Of course, it was entirely possible that they'd already given her up for dead, but in his experience it was unusual for parents to assume the worst, even when all the evidence pointed that way. At any rate, it was worth investigating further. The vast majority of people were not killed by strangers.

While Purnima spoke with them, James concentrated on surveying the house. It was a typical Park Town detached, solidly built and eminently tasteful. James remembered that Mrs. Foster was listed in the original missing persons report as a marketing consultant and Mr. Foster was president of a well-known public relations firm. The interior looked professionally decorated, but there were many homely touches: James counted three photographs of Siobhan at various ages and one of a young man James imagined could be Siobhan's brother, given the resemblance. There was also a painting of Mrs. Foster over the mantel, with Siobhan's signature in the bottom right corner. It was a stunning likeness.

They arranged to meet Mr. and Mrs. Foster a few hours later at the station to identify the body. When they got outside, Purnima let out a long breath and closed her eyes briefly. “Bloody hell. Now I know why you parked the car two streets away. I need a walk.”

James dug out his pack of cigarettes. “Do you mind if I –” Purnima shook her head, but there was something in her expression that made him offer the pack to her.

“I'm trying to quit,” she admitted, even as she pulled one out. “But I suppose today's an exception.”

James said nothing, only lit her cigarette for her, then his own. They strode down the street together, twin trails of smoke wafting behind them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Laura perched on the corner of her desk. “Cause of death was a broken neck.”

James nodded. It hadn't escaped his notice that she'd ushered him into her office, and he was both grateful and a bit miffed that she was determined to protect his delicate sensibilities. “Anything else?”

Laura shook her head. “Not much. There are no signs of struggle; I'm guessing whatever happened, she was caught unawares, but there are abrasions on her arms and legs.”

“Consistent with being dragged?”

“A couple of them, yes. Others could be from a fall; she has a hairline fracture in an ankle bone as well. We've yet to do a thorough examination of the clothes for fibres or organic matter, but there's nothing on the body. No recent sexual activity, and in fact it's possible that she'd never had penetrative intercourse.”

James frowned. “She was a virgin?”

Laura nodded. “There's no way to be absolutely certain, but it's a strong possibility. Surprised?”

“Before the parents first filed the missing persons report, they said they initially thought she'd run off to London with her boyfriend.” James blew out a breath. “I suppose it would be too much to ask for a flashing sign pointing to the culprit, but does it have to be getting more bloody complicated?”

Laura cocked her head. “What's the matter?”

James hesitated before replying. “I was meant to be having dinner with someone tonight. Hence the temper tantrum.”

Laura's mouth curved. “I take it your gloom and doom scenario wasn't realised, then.”

James snorted, acknowledging his flaw.

“You still might manage dinner, though.”

James shook his head. “Not likely. Roger's headed down to London, coordinating with the Met to try to get his hands on the boyfriend.”

“Bad luck,” she said sympathetically. “But if anyone would understand, it's him.”

“Yeah,” James said heavily.

“Have you rung him yet?”

“No,” James said. “He's still on the road from Manchester, I expect.” Rising to his feet, he said, “Parents are due in around noon.”

Laura nodded. “She'll be ready.”

On his way out of the morgue, James saw one of the lab techs pulling a pair of pink socks with lace trim from an evidence bag.

 _Ten more days,_ he thought. _I can manage ten more days.  
_

_  
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_  
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_

_  
_

Mrs. Foster nodded slowly, as though in a trance, while her husband gripped her shoulders tightly.

“Yes,” Mr. Foster rasped. “That's Siobhan. That's our precious girl.”

“Oh, don't –” Mrs. Foster whispered brokenly, and her husband squeezed her even more tightly. James glanced at the place where his fingers made indents in the flesh of her arm, then away. He nodded at the morgue attendant, who covered Siobhan's face once more.

“When can we –” Mr. Foster made a gesture at the glass partition that James understood all too well.

“Within the next day or two, I expect,” James said. “Our office can coordinate with whomever you choose to make the arrangements.”

Purnima stepped in. “I'll ring you tomorrow morning with more information. We'll need to do an interview as well.”

“We told the police everything we knew two weeks ago,” Mr. Foster said, with a touch of irritation.

“The questions for a missing persons case are different to those for a homicide investigation,” James interjected smoothly.

“Is that what it is, then?” Mrs. Foster managed. “A homicide?”

“I'm afraid it's pointing that way, yes,” James answered. “The mere fact that she was moved from the place where she died would suggest foul play.”

Mrs. Foster opened her mouth to speak, but another squeeze from Mr. Foster made her close it again. “Do you need anything else from us?” he asked.

Purnima glanced at James, who made a slight negative gesture. “Not at the moment,” she said. “We'll speak to you tomorrow. And again, our sincere condolences.”

Mr. Foster nodded, and together the two of them left the viewing room. Purnima watched them go, then turned back to James.

“That was odd,” she said.

“To say the least,” James agreed. “Does Siobhan have any brothers or sisters?”

“One younger sister, thirteen, and an older brother, eighteen. He's at Durham; the parents said he wasn't home when she disappeared.”

“Did anyone interview him at the time?”

“I'd have to check, but I don't think so.”

“I imagine he'll be coming home tonight or tomorrow. Let's set up an interview with him, and the sister. She may let slip whatever it is the parents aren't telling us.”

Purnima studied him. “That could be a tricky situation, interviewing a child.”

James stared at the sheet-covered remains of what used to be a living, breathing girl. “There's never any part of this that isn't tricky.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As if to prove James’ point, the press somehow got hold of the story, and it was on the news by three. In the ensuing mad dash to get out a statement, James completely forgot to get in touch with Lewis. Instead, Lewis sent him a text just after Innocent's press conference at five.

_Saw the news. Guessing we're postponing tonight's plans._

James sighed and punched in a reply. _Sorry. Should have rung you._

_No worries. Don't think you're getting out of cooking for me, though._

James hesitated, then typed, _I can't wait to cook for you._

_Me neither. Talk to you soon._

James went back to rereading the missing persons report, but this time he was smiling.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Siobhan Foster's boyfriend, Gordon Robertson, was brought in to the station a little after six.

“We tracked him down right away – he works days at an HMV in Southwark – but it took seven hours to process him through the Met and transfer him to us,” Roger said. “Bloody paperwork.”

“Welcome to the world of inter-service cooperation,” James said, studying Robertson through the glass. His arms were liberally tattooed, in a style reminiscent of Maori designs, and his long, dark hair was gathered in a ponytail. James estimated him to be about six foot, and a lean, well-muscled one-eighty.

“He's certainly physically capable of dragging a little slip of a girl through the woods,” James observed. “How did he react to the news she was dead?”

“Badly. He was really distraught, and it seemed genuine. Of course, the operative word is 'seemed'.”

James nodded. The young man sitting before them seemed numb, not even bothering to take an interest in his surroundings, but then it had been several hours.

“You and me, then,” James said. Since Laura had given them a more precise time of death about an hour ago, Purnima was stuck in with Julie studying nearly a day's worth of CCTV footage from the two intersections nearest where Siobhan's body had been found.

Gordon didn't even raise his head when James and Roger entered the room. Roger turned on the recorder. “Interview commenced at six twenty seven PM.”

“Gordon, I'm Detective Sergeant James Hathaway. I believe you already know DS Morgan.”

Gordon nodded, gaze still on the table-top.

“When you were interviewed on September 28th after Siobhan was reported missing, you told Constable Hassan that you were in London on September 23rd, the night she was last seen by her family. You said that your bandmate Ian Newsome could attest to that, and he did.”

Gordon nodded again.

“Well, it turns out there's a bit of a problem with that, because the Met picked up Ian two hours ago, and he's now telling them that you didn't arrive in London until the afternoon of September 24th.” At this, Gordon finally raised his head and looked at James, though the gaze still appeared unfocused, detached. “Where were you on the night of the 23rd, Gordon?”

“I was in Oxford,” Gordon murmured.

“And when did you last see Siobhan?”

“Round about six, like I told you before. None of that was a lie.”

James leaned forward. “Refresh my memory.”

Gordon blinked at him for a moment, then looked away. “We'd made plans for her to come with me to London. She was bright – only a year away from finishing school, and then she was going to go to art college. But I – started worrying about it. Worrying she'd resent me if things didn't go well in London. She was planning to take a job to help pay our way – what if she didn't get her A levels because of that? Thought maybe she should wait one more year, live with her parents till then. She didn't agree. We argued about it that night, and I left.”

“Then what was the lie?”

“I was feeling like shit, so I went to a mate's place, ate curry and got stoned. Passed out, woke up the next morning, and drove to London in the early afternoon.”

“Why didn't you tell us this at the time?” Roger demanded.

“Didn't want a mate to get in trouble, did I?”

“Did it occur to you to merely say you got drunk?” James said gently.

Gordon shook his head. “He's not terribly bright, is Nigel. He'll have all his shit lying around when you show up at his door.”

“We're not particularly interested in your friend's drug use at the moment, Gordon. Will Nigel corroborate your story?”

Gordon met James' gaze for a long moment, then nodded. “I'll give you his address. Not that it fucking matters any longer, now that she's gone.”

James took a deep breath through his nose. “Our pathologist has reported that it's possible Siobhan had never had sexual intercourse.”

Gordon's expression was a mixture of repulsion and anger. “Why the hell do you need to know about that?”

“Because a great number of young women who are murdered are sexually assaulted as well,” James said, as calmly as he could. Gordon stared at him for a moment, stricken, and then nodded.

“You were boyfriend and girlfriend, and yet you'd never had sex. Is that correct?”

“That's right,” Gordon snapped.

“Whose idea was that?”

Gordon glared at him. “Mine, mostly.”

Roger snorted; Gordon rounded on him. “What was that?”

Roger rolled his eyes. “Come on, mate. You're trying to tell us that you were the one who was playing hard to get?”

Gordon shot to his feet. James saw Roger move to rise out of the corner of his eye, and swiftly braced a hand across his chest.

“Sit down, please, Gordon.” He turned to Roger, shooting him a warning look, and heard rather than saw Gordon slam back into his chair.

“We understand that we're intruding on your relationship with Siobhan. But we're pursuing this line of questioning because in our society, many men try to pressure women into sex. When the women resist, things can turn violent. Whether we find these questions unpleasant is irrelevant. We are duty-bound to ask them. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Gordon muttered. “Yeah, I –” he took a shuddering breath. “Sorry. What do you want to know?”

“Did you ever, either directly or indirectly, put pressure on Siobhan to have sex with you?”

Gordon looked at his hands, which were twisted together on the tabletop. “When I first met Siobhan,” he began, “it was online, through her blog. She knew so much about art, and life, I figured she had to be a uni student, older than me.” He looked up. “When we met, it turned out she was fourteen. She'd been writing the blog for three years. She was smarter than anyone around her, and she said she couldn't talk to most people her own age. I understood that. We started out as friends. It wasn't until later that – well, one day she kissed me, and I –” He squeezed his eyes shut, and tears began trickling down his cheeks. “Sorry.”

Wordlessly, James handed over the box of tissues. Gordon took one, then continued on.

“I told her she was too young. She was angry about that at first, but I think I explained it to her the best I could. What I felt for her – it was too important to rush with a quick fumble. Never mind that it's illegal – well, I know that matters to you blokes. But she was old and young at the same time, you know? I guess that's why they have that law. I wanted her to be sure I was what she wanted out of life. And if it turned out I wasn't it, I would have let her go.”

“You loved her,” James said.

“I couldn't not love her,” Gordon said. “She was beautiful, but not like you think. She had so much beauty in _here_ –” he tapped his chest “–it shone from her. That's what I love – what I loved.” His face crumpled, and he scrubbed his hands over it almost violently. James gave him a moment to collect himself before speaking.

“Did you kill her, Gordon?”

Gordon held James' gaze for a long moment, then shook his head. “No.”

“Do you know of anyone who might have wished her harm?”

“Not of anyone in particular.”

“What does that mean?” Roger asked.

Gordon's gaze didn't waver from James' face. “It means that this society teaches people to fear and hate what they don't understand, what they can't control, what they can't ever hope to get near to themselves. And there were so many people who didn't understand Siobhan, who wanted to control her, who couldn't stand how special she was, that I couldn't make you a list if I tried.”

James could feel the exact moment the headache began to throb in his temples – the left a bit more than the right, he thought, but he couldn't be sure.

“Nevertheless, Gordon,” he said wearily, reaching for his notebook, “I'm afraid we're going to have to insist you do make the attempt.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By the time James arrived home, it was well past nine and he was nearly at the stage where cutting off his own head seemed like a viable method of pain relief. He was so distracted that he didn't notice the man lying on his sofa until the soft snores penetrated the fog. He moved to stand over Lewis, staring down at him, his aching brain confused by his presence. Lewis was sleeping with one arm flung out and drooping towards the floor, and his head was bent at a rather alarming angle against the cushions.

“Sir?” James shook his head, then regretted it as the pain bloomed behind his eyes. “Robbie?”

Lewis grunted, then stirred, then winced as he tried to move his head. “Blimey, I fell asleep,” he said.

James' sore brain tried to marshal his thoughts. The question of _how_ was easy to answer, because they'd exchanged spare keys to one another's flats ages ago; all that remained was _why._ “I thought you knew I'd be working late.”

Lewis finally opened his eyes completely, then immediately employed them in a heavenward roll. “Course I did. Reckoned you wouldn't have eaten a proper supper, so thought I'd make you one. It's in the fridge.”

James stared at him, gobsmacked, as Lewis swung his legs over the edge of the sofa and rubbed his neck with the back of his hand. “Had a long day yesterday. Brian was up in the middle of the night.”

James sat down beside him. He wanted to put his hand on Robbie's neck and massage it, but he wasn't sure if that was something he was allowed now. “How did things go with Lyn?”

“Okay,” Lewis said. “Next time I visit, I expect she won't be showing me any more flats.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. I'd been meaning to tell her for a while. I just –” he looked over at James, held his gaze “– I had a bit more incentive this time.”

That seemed to be a clear invitation. James leaned towards him, and then they were both leaning in, and oh, it had only been three days, but he'd missed this. Lewis' lips were soft against his, his hand on James' jaw gentle, reassuring.

“Hello,” Lewis murmured against his mouth.

“Hello,” James echoed. “No one's ever made me dinner before.”

Lewis smiled at him fondly. “Don't get too excited; it's only shepherd's pie.”

“Oh, well then,” James said, grinning into another kiss. This one showed even more promise than the first, but when his heart rate kicked up a notch, his head throbbed its displeasure, and he pulled away, grimacing.

“What's wrong?”

“Headache,” James grunted, closing his eyes. “Sorry.”

“Stop apologising, lad. Have you taken anything for it?”

“Not yet.”

“Lie back and relax,” Lewis ordered, emphasising his words with a hand to James' chest. James smiled through his pain and did as he was told, cracking an eye open to watch Lewis hurry off to the loo and emerge a short time later with a glass of water.

“Here,” he said, passing the pills and the water to James. James swallowed them quickly, then lay back again, handing the glass back to Lewis.

“D'you want a cold cloth?”

“You don't have to fuss.”

Lewis huffed out a breath, then disappeared again. James must have dozed off, because he startled when the cloth touched his forehead. Lewis perched on the edge of the sofa, his expression concerned.

“You're as knackered as I am,” he murmured, stroking James' cheek.

James raised a hand to the cloth; Lewis had put ice in it. The cold was deliciously numbing. “Yeah. I don't think I can eat.” He refrained from apologising again.

“It'll keep.” Lewis paused, then said, “You know what's odd? Tonight made me think about Val – in a good way, I mean. I remembered all the dinners she'd cooked and saved for me, waiting for me to come home safe. It's not that I didn't appreciate it before, but I – understood it better. What it must have been like for her.”

James took Lewis' stroking hand in his and kissed the fingers.

“Well,” Lewis murmured, rising to his feet, “I should let you get some rest.”

“Would you stay?” Lewis froze, and James bit down on his lip. What was he saying? He'd promised not to rush things. “Not for – that. I just.” He remembered the socks, Siobhan's bloated face, Gordon's hollow-eyed stare. He couldn't stand the thought of being alone with them. But he'd managed it before, more times than he could count, and he could do it again.“Never mind.”

But Lewis only regarded him steadily. “It was a bad day, wasn't it, lad?” he murmured.

James felt a mortifying prickling at the corners of his eyes. “I don't –” he sucked in a harsh breath; there wasn't enough oxygen in the room. Sitting up, he set the cloth on the table and buried his head in his hands. “Christ, Robbie, I don't want to do this any more. I really don't.”

“Ah, lad,” Lewis whispered, and then he was sitting beside him, his arm going around James' shoulders. James turned into him without hesitation, burying his face against Lewis' neck. “I'm the one who's sorry.”

“Not your fault,” James said, his arms snaking round Lewis' torso, indulging himself for a moment before he pulled back and sat up.

“I wouldn't have thought Innocent would fob another murder onto you. Can't Purnima and Roger –”

James shook his head. “There's more than enough work for three. The boyfriend – and no, I don't think he did it – provided us with a rather comprehensive list of suspects tonight. And before you say it, I think most of them are rubbish. But we'll still need to follow them up.”

“Unless you find the culprit early on. Any ideas?”

James raised his eyebrows. “I don't know that I should be discussing an open case with a civilian,” he drawled.

Lewis snorted. “Smartarse. Tell me.”

“The family's hiding something. I don't know what.”

“Oh, God,” Lewis breathed. “I hope you're wrong.”

“Me, too,” James murmured. Unable to suppress a yawn, it emerged full-strength, making his jaw crack.

“Come on, then,” Lewis said, rising to his feet and extending a hand to James. “Let's get you tucked in, eh?”

James smiled and allowed himself to be tugged to his feet. When the sudden change in altitude made his head swim, Lewis wrapped an arm securely round his waist to steady him, and together they made their way to the bedroom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

James awoke with a start to a gnawing hunger and an empty bed. He checked the clock: it was near to the time he usually awoke for work, but last night Lewis had texted Innocent for him to let her know he'd be in later in the morning so that he could try to sleep in a bit and shake the headache. Experimentally, he tucked his chin to his chest, then arched his neck backwards. No explosions.

Had Lewis stayed with him last night? He honestly couldn't remember. He'd been out as soon as he hit the mattress. He did recall a hand stroking through his hair, Lewis' soft rumble murmuring to him, a jumble of pleasing sound as he lost consciousness.

Well, there was nothing for it; he might as well get up and find something to eat, though he believed his cupboards were nearly bare. He showered and shaved, brushed his teeth. Clad only in boxers, he shuffled down the hall and nearly jumped out of his skin when he found Lewis standing in his kitchen, cracking eggs into a bowl.

Lewis turned, his gaze traveling the length of him from head to toe. James suppressed a shiver.

“Dressing casual for breakfast?” Lewis asked mildly. He was wearing the same shirt and trousers he'd been wearing last night. Well, that answered one question. James briefly considered retreating to the bedroom to cover up, then noticed the twin spots of colour on Lewis' cheeks.

Feigning innocence, James looked down at himself. “I can put some clothes on if it bothers you.”

“It doesn't bother me a bit.” Lewis stared at him for another moment, then abruptly turned back to his preparations.

James smiled as he closed the distance between them. “I didn't know I had eggs and streaky bacon.”

“You didn't. I popped down to the shop early. How's your head?”

“Much better.” Gingerly, James placed his hands on Lewis' shoulders. When he didn't sense any tension, James stepped right up behind him, close but not quite touching. “Thank you. For last night. For staying. For this.”

Lewis' shoulders lifted beneath his palms. “It's not so much. It's nice to have someone to do for.”

James rested his chin on Lewis' shoulder. “Someone?”

Lewis turned to face him, his hands cupping James' hipbones. “Fishing for compliments, are you? All right. It's nice to do for you.” He tilted his head back. “Blimey, but you're a tall one.”

James chuckled. “You're just realising this now?”

“Never tried to kiss you standing up before,” Lewis growled. James felt arousal punch him low in his gut, and he bent his head as Lewis surged up, kissing him hard.

Lewis maneuvered them both away from the hob, and the next thing James knew his arse was pressing against the countertop as Lewis slid his hands up James' back. “Your skin's so smooth,” Lewis rasped, and James moaned and kissed him again, wrapping his arms around Lewis' shoulders.

Lewis sucked on his lower lip before pulling away and nuzzling his neck. “D'you always parade around in your smalls like this, or were you trying to take the mickey?”

James found it exceedingly difficult to form words with Lewis' tongue traveling the length of his jugular. “I didn't – didn't know you were still here,” he managed.

Lewis looked up at that, frowning. “Why wouldn't I have been?”

James looked away. “Listen,” Lewis said, “I'd be lying to you if I said this wasn't a bit of a shock initially, but I'd say I'm catching up fairly well, wouldn't you?” To emphasise his point, he glided his hands down James' back until they rested at the waistband of his shorts. James shivered and nodded.

“Good. Now, as much as I'd like to carry on with this, you have other things to do today. So why don't you cover up all that lovely skin and I'll finish making us breakfast, all right?”

James couldn't resist leaning in for another kiss, and Lewis indulged both of them for a long, lingering moment before pulling away. As he did, Lewis' gaze dipped, and his cheeks flushed. James bit his tongue and fled with the tattered scraps of his dignity.

A few minutes later, safely armoured in his suit and tie, he rang Purnima's number. “Purnima? What time did you schedule to meet with the Fosters at their home?”

“One o'clock.”

“Would you please ring them back and ask them to come in to the station instead?”

There was a pause. “Are they under caution?”

James blew out a breath. “Yeah.”

“If we go that route, they'll get a lawyer.”

“Fine. I'd rather they have one, because I want to be able to speak with the daughter and son without the parents present.”

“I'll ring them,” Purnima said. “Is it bad to say I hope you're wrong?”

James opened his mouth to tell her Lewis had said the same thing, then wisely decided against it. “I hope I'm wrong, too. Thanks,” he said, and rang off.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not surprisingly, Innocent had instructed Purnima and Roger to send him directly to her office as soon as he arrived. While it certainly wasn't the first time he'd been summoned, it was the first time he'd felt absolutely nothing – not dread, or anticipation, or much of anything.

“I've been informed you're bringing the Fosters in under caution,” she said without preamble. “Please tell me you have some shred of evidence to back up this rather unorthodox action.”

“Their original story was that they assumed Siobhan ran off with her boyfriend. We now have testimony from a witness that Gordon Robertson arrived at his flat shortly after the time he says he saw Siobhan for the last time, and stayed there all night.”

“Is this witness reliable?”

“Not in the least, which is why Purnima and Julie went through the CCTV near the house. The closest cameras to their street are on Woodstock and Banbury roads, the nearest cross streets. Gordon's car is seen heading north on Banbury, away from their street, at six eighteen. It never returned by either route that night. They picked it up near the witness' house about twenty minutes later, which is a reasonable length of time given the distance.”

“She could have left on her own to meet him.”

James shook his head. “Not on foot. They checked.”

“By car, then.”

“She didn't drive. So unless she had a friend who did drive take her to Gordon, which seems unlikely, she never left the house that night.”

Innocent frowned. “Are you trying to say these people killed their own daughter?”

“I don't know. I do know they were the last people who are known to have seen Siobhan alive; the missing persons report says they first noticed she'd left when they found her gone in the morning. They didn't file a report for over forty-eight hours after that. No matter what they thought about her whereabouts or who she was with, she was fifteen. They had a duty of care.”

Innocent studied him for a long moment. “Unless they already knew she was dead and were trying to decide what to do, you're implying.”

Hathaway inclined his head. “What are the chances of my getting a warrant to search the house and their car?”

“Slim to none, unless you can give me something more substantial that I can use to justify the request.”

James ran a hand through his hair. “And I can't get that for you without searching the house. Damn it!”

Innocent stiffened, and James immediately felt contrition seize him. “I'm sorry, ma'am. I meant to direct that at the situation, not at you.”

“I gathered that,” Innocent told him drily. More kindly, she added, “James, if you want to be removed from this case, all you have to do is say.”

James shook his head. “I understand that, ma'am, but I want to follow this through. I have to.”

Innocent studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “Fine. I know I don't have to tell you to tread carefully.”

“You probably do, actually. And thank you.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It took James approximately five minutes to decide that Rory Foster knew nothing about what had happened to his sister. If not, he was an extremely convincing sociopath. He showed exactly the right amount of grief, and the right amount of honest-seeming confusion at why he was being questioned under caution.

“What did you think of Siobhan, Rory?” Purnima asked.

“What did I think of her?” Rory asked. “She's – she was – my sister. I loved her. I always will love her.”

“Did you get along with her?”

“Not always. You know little sisters. Only she was – she was really smart. She could have done anything she set her mind to.”

“And instead, she set her mind to dating Gordon Robertson.”

James watched Rory's reaction to Purnima's statement very closely, but the young man revealed nothing beyond a slowly deepening frown. “I get that you're trying to wind me up,” he said, “but I don't really know why. I liked Gordon. At first I wasn't keen on it, I'll admit, but once I got to talk to him I realised he was more than he appeared at first look. He cared about Siobhan very much, and he wouldn't have hurt her.”

“What did your parents think of Gordon?”

“They didn't like him. They refused to meet him, and forbade Siobhan from seeing him.” Rory shook his head. “I tried to tell them it wouldn't work, but they wouldn't listen.”

It took all of James' will power to keep from leaping in at that moment, but unsurprisingly Purnima was on the same track he was.

“If your parents were so concerned about Siobhan's relationship with Gordon, can you tell us why they failed to report her disappearance until three days after they'd last seen her? After all, their belief was that your sister had run off with him.”

Rory stiffened. “I asked them about that, too. They told me that while I'd been away at uni, they'd had a long chat with Siobhan and told her they would respect her choice.”

“Did that surprise you?”

“It did, a little. I reckoned there was more to it – that maybe Siobhan had threatened to leave and it scared them into changing their minds – but at the time, I didn't think much of it. All I cared about was getting her back.” His face took on a stricken look, and tears pooled in his eyes. “Sorry. I'm sorry.”

Wordlessly, James slid the box of tissues across the table-top. He watched Rory take one, crumple it in a fist.

“Do you know who might have wanted to hurt Siobhan, Rory?”

Rory shook his head. “No. I don't know anyone. Not anyone, I'm sorry.”

“Are you done?” the Fosters' lawyer asked, putting a comforting hand on Rory's shoulder as the tears finally spilled over.

Purnima glanced at James, who inclined his head. “For now, yes. Thank you, Rory; if you could please stay here for the time being?” At Rory's nod, she rose from her chair, following James out of the room.

“Oh, bugger,” she murmured as soon as they were safely in the viewing room, “It's the parents, isn't it? It's the bloody parents.”

“I don't know yet,” James said. Something didn't seem right, but he couldn't sort out what it was. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing for Lewis' experience and insight on this case.

There was a knock on the door. When Purnima answered it, Julie burst in. “Roger and I found the Fosters' car on the CCTV from the night Siobhan was reported missing,” she said breathlessly. “Picked it up going south on Woodstock road at two twenty-eight AM, returned just before six. And that's not all. Found it on a camera on Botley Road, headed west toward Marley Wood a few minutes later.”

“Oh, god,” Purnima breathed.

“Julie, you and Roger have just handed us our warrant. Well done. We're a little tied up here – would you and he please make the case to the Chief Super? And while you're at it, tell Roger I want SOCO crawling over the car and the house within the hour. And Doctor Hobson, if she's available.”

Julie's eyes widened slightly, but she said, “Sure thing, Sarge.” For an agonising moment, James was afraid she was going to salute, but she only nodded briefly and turned on her heel.

“Are you going to tell the parents about the warrant?” Purnima asked.

“I don't have a warrant yet,” James pointed out.

Purnima arched an eyebrow at him. “Did you learn to be sneaky at Cambridge, or did himself teach you that?”

James smiled in spite of himself. “A bit of both.”

“So, the parents?”

James shook his head. “No. The girl first.” Purnima blew out a shaky breath. “Stiff upper lip, now.”

“Bugger that, I want a cigarette.”

James sighed. “Me too.” Inclining his head toward the door, he said, “Come on, then. Five minutes to appease the beast.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bridget sat hunched in on herself in the chair opposite James. Beside her, the Foster's lawyer glared at him, waiting for him to cross the line. The line, Hathaway knew, was approximately two inches past his toes; he didn't need her glare to tell him that, though it was a handy reminder.

Purnima was clearly waiting for him to take the lead on this, so he dove in. “Bridget, I'm Detective Sergeant James Hathaway, and this is Detective Sergeant Purnima Chadhoury.” Bridget's dark brown gaze flicked over them both, but that was her only response.

“I'm very sorry for the loss of your sister,” James said. “I know this is a difficult time for you, so we're going to try to keep this as brief as possible.”

Bridget blinked several times in rapid succession, and nodded.

“You go to the same school as your sister did, is that right?”

Bridget nodded again, mechanically. “Yeah.”

“I heard they're planning a memorial service for her next week.”

Bridget looked at her hands, which were folded in her lap. “Are they.”

“Yeah. I suppose people need that, don't they? Need to say goodbye. She must have had a lot of friends, smart, talented girl like her.”

Bridget's forehead creased. “Not that many.”

“I'd have thought she was popular.”

Bridget didn't look up. “Most of the kids at school thought she was up herself. She was popular with the teachers, though.”

“Hm. I imagine so. Did you think she was up herself, then?”

Bridget shrugged, eyes still downcast.

“Is there some point to this conversation?” the lawyer demanded. Out of the corner of his eye, James saw Purnima shoot him a look and realised she was probably wondering the same thing. He studied Bridget: her determined slouch, her quest for invisibility, was achingly familiar. Suddenly, a door opened.

“Do you dislike having your photograph taken, Bridget?” James asked.

That earned him a brief glance. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, are you shy? You see, I was terribly shy when I was your age, which was made even more terrible by the fact that I was already nearly six foot. Not easy to hide. Always sat folded in on myself – like you, now. And I never wanted to have my photo taken.”

The girl shifted in her chair, straightened slightly. “I don't mind it.”

“That's good. I did wonder, because when I was at your home yesterday, I didn't see any photos of you on the walls. I saw one of Rory, and three of Siobhan, but none of you. I didn't even know Siobhan had a sister until Sergeant Chadhoury told me.”

“Sergeant Hathaway –” the lawyer began.

“Now that's something I don't know about,” James said conversationally. “Living in someone's shadow. I was an only child. I always thought it would have been nice to have a brother or a sister, but sometimes it's a mixed blessing, isn't it? Especially when that brother or sister is ridiculously talented in some way. The kids at school think you must be just like her – a bit of a prat. Makes it harder to find friends. Teachers expect you to get everything the first time, and are frustrated with you when you don't. Everyone compares the two of you, and it's not exactly fair, is it?”

Bridget shrugged again, though she was frowning now.

“The worst of all, I'd imagine, is when your parents don't treat you the same way,” James continued. “Because every parent says they love their children equally – and they probably do – but they don't always show it. I can't imagine how that must feel.” He paused. “Did you ever feel like your mum and dad loved Siobhan more than you, Bridget?”

Bridget bit her lip. “They still do,” she whispered. “They don't love me at all. They'll never love me again.”

James rested his elbows on the table. “Why wouldn't they love you now?”

Tears began to roll silently down Bridget's cheeks, and the lawyer stood. “Bridget, we're leaving.”

“Not quite yet, if you please,” James said. “Bridget.” The girl looked up. “Your mum and dad could be in a lot of trouble very soon. Before that happens, is there anything you'd like to tell me?”

Bridget unleashed a harsh, jagged sob. “I didn't mean to! I didn't! It was after everyone had gone to bed. She was sneaking out, she was going to leave – and I tried to stop her – and then we fought, and she – she fell! It was an accident!”

“She fell where?”

“Down the stairs! She fell down the stairs! But I didn't push her! She tripped over her bag! She must have broken her neck, when she hit the bottom she wasn't moving, I couldn't do anything, and then they came out of their room and saw. I told them she tripped and they didn't _believe_ me, I know they didn't – but I sw – swear –” Bridget collapsed into deep, wracking sobs, and the lawyer gathered her close, shooting a withering glare at James.

James leaned toward the recorder. “Interview suspended at two-twenty three,” he said, and rose on shaking legs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I'm never having kids,” Purnima said into her glass of cider. “No matter how much my mum prays.”

“Blasphemy,” James said, setting down his empty pint decisively for emphasis.

“Yeah, I know. Don't care.” She looked at Roger. “You ever having kids?”

Roger, who was still a bit miffed at being chosen as the designated driver for the evening, raised his eyebrows at her. “I have a kid, remember?”

“Oh, right. Calliope. How could I forget Calliope?”

“It's Hermione.”

“Right, yeah, Hermione. How is she?”

“Not growing up to be a cold-blooded murderer, I hope,” Roger muttered. “Christ, I really want a drink.”

Purnima waved a finger at him. “You weren't there. You weren't there, so you don't get to drink. That's a rule.” She looked at James. “Right?”

James nodded solemnly. “Right.”

“What d'you do when you're both there?”

James thought back to a rain-soaked night with Lewis, another one in the middle of a biting cold winter. Too many. He shook his head. “Then you both drink and you ring for a taxi after.”

“Right.” She pointed at James. “Listen to him, Roger. He's right.”

Roger's gaze was fondly amused; James remembered that look, too. He hoped to see it again soon.

“Anyway,” Purnima continued, “she isn't a cold-blooded murderer. I don't think so, anyway. What do you think, James?”

“I don't think so, either. But I also think we'll never know for certain.”

“Her parents know,” Purnima said darkly. “They think she did it. She's right about that.”

“She's not right about them not loving her, though,” Roger said. “They loved her enough to try to cover it up.”

“Is that love?” Purnima said. “If it is, I'll stick to my cat.” She drained her cider, then looked down at the glass. “My cider's gone.”

“I'll fetch you another,” Roger said. “James?”

“Yeah, thanks,” James said. He began digging in his pocket, but Roger held up a hand.

“You're all right. Try to hold each other up while I'm gone.”

After he'd disappeared in the crowd, Purnima turned to James. “So, you're leaving,” she said.

“Yup,” James said. “One more week.”

“Too bad. You're brilliant. I don't know how you thought to suspect Bridget.”

James studied the tabletop. “When children think they've done something wrong, even when it isn't truly their fault, their only defense is to try to disappear.”

“You said she reminded you of yourself,” Purnima said, and James' head snapped up. He met her gaze as calmly as he could, letting the silence be his answer to the implicit question.

Purnima nodded slowly, her gaze softening into something that was just shy of pity. Understanding, perhaps. She had the makings of an excellent detective, God help her.

“A pint of bitter and a cider for the lady,” Roger said, setting the glasses down on the table in front of his fellow sergeants.

“Cheers, Roger,” James said, lifting his glass in a toast before taking a long sip.

“Yeah, thanks,” Purnima said. “Well, what shall we drink to, then?”

James shook his head, at a loss. Finally, Roger raised his ginger beer. “To one more day closer to retirement.”

“Works for me,” Purnima said, clinking her glass against the others'.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When James staggered into his flat, it was nearly one o'clock. Innocent had given them until late morning to report in, which every copper knew meant _Take some time to wrap your head around the horror of it before you snap._ Luckily – or unluckily, depending on how you saw it – James would have all the time in the world for that in a few days.

After a visit to the bathroom and a quick shower that completely failed to sober him up, he shuffled to the bedroom and flicked on the light. He was still drunk enough that the man-sized lump in his bed took several seconds to register as a foreign presence; somehow, after years of being alone and one night of coming home to someone, it seemed perfectly natural for Lewis to be there.

Lewis groaned at the sudden burst of light, then rolled to face James. If he didn't immediately deduce James' drunken state, the slight sway as he stood under Lewis' scrutiny was conclusive evidence. “You solved it, then,” he said.

James nodded. Without thought, he stripped off his towel, stumbled to the bed, slipped under the covers and climbed into Lewis' waiting arms.

“Ah, lad,” Lewis murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I'm sorry.”

James buried his face in Lewis' neck. He inhaled slowly, let it out. He could feel his heart slowing.

Lewis' arms tightened around him. “You should knock back a couple of glasses of water.”

James smiled against Lewis' skin. “Don't worry, mother. Roger made us drink some before we left the pub.”

“None of your cheek,” Lewis said, though his gentle hands belied his words.

James raised his head, touched Lewis' face with his fingertips. “I'm glad you're here.”

“I felt a little silly letting myself in again, but I had a feeling you might – need someone.”

“I need you,” James said, kissing him softly. “I've always needed you.” Another kiss, this time with the hint of teeth. His mouth felt clumsy. He reached out to grip Lewis' shoulder, its solidity anchoring him as he pressed his bare skin against Lewis' pyjama-clad body.

Lewis returned his kiss for a moment, then pulled back. “Not tonight, love,” he said. “Not with me half-asleep and you three sheets to the wind.”

James was sober enough to recognise Lewis' words weren't an outright rejection, but they stung nevertheless. Lewis must have read his expression, because he took James' chin in his hand.

“Listen to me. When this happens, I want us to know what we're doing. And I want us to remember it.”

James closed his eyes and shivered. “So do I,” he rasped.

“Glad we agree,” Lewis muttered. As he shifted to put some distance between them, James noticed there was definite evidence that Lewis was as affected as James was. As Lewis rolled onto his back, James smiled and laid his head on Lewis' shoulder. Lewis sighed, curling an arm around him to stroke his hair.

“I could get used to this,” Lewis confessed, lips tickling James' forehead.

“I already have,” James said, just before he tumbled into a deep, blessedly dreamless sleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Case involving violent death, brief mention of sexual assault.


End file.
